


Chance Meetings and Chocolate Cake

by scriptscribbles



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, because it needed to happen, but not the shippy kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptscribbles/pseuds/scriptscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is a terrifying place for a little girl to be lost in, particularly when it's her own fault. But not every grown-up wants her to blame herself. Not Evelyn Smythe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Meetings and Chocolate Cake

London, 2000. Busy, bustling, chaotic. Amelia clutched her book desperately, weaving through the crowds of shoppers and smokers and sewage workers. They had to be close. They just had to. She couldn't have been reading that long, could she? Couldn't have lost sight of Mels and Rory that quickly. No, they couldn't have gone far. She couldn't accept it.

It was all the stupid book's fault, anyway. Some silly thing about dragons and elves and faeries. She knew she was too old for it. The psychiatrists told her as much, and her aunt, as well. She was eleven now. Too old for daft, magical heroes and blue boxes. No, no blue boxes, she told herself. Musn't think about the blue boxes. And it wasn't the book's fault. It was hers. Stupid little Amelia. Too in love with fantasy to keep hold on reality. But it was her Scottish stubbornness that told her not to give in. If they told her to give t up, she'd embrace them all the way. Fight them even if they were right, even if she was just a poor little stupid girl. And right then, she knew she was.

The pages fluttered as she tossed the book away into the bushes, like a butterfly with a hole shot through the wing. It was painful. It was beautiful. It felt wrong so she knew it had to be right. It always felt wrong when she did what they told her. Perhaps she was just wrong.

"That's no way to treat a book," a voice tutted. It wasn't the sort of tut she was used to, not from the psychiatrists or teachers or her aunt. It was warmer, more compassionate. Like this person cared, wanted to understand why she had done it. Amelia liked that tut. Clearly it was wrong.

The woman speaking to her was soft and cozy, all knitted cardigans and laughter lines. A faint smell of cocoa. But there was a twinkle in her eyes, mischievous and wrong, that reminded Amelia of her own Scottish willfulness. She had no words to say, or perhaps too many and no idea of where to begin. So she stood, mouth failing to work, just blinking and staring.

"I know, musn't talk to strangers," the woman chuckled. It was even better than her tutting. It was like she actually cared. But that was ridiculous. Only Rory and Mels cared. Adults never cared. "You're a very smart girl. I'll just head on my way, then, shall I?"

Smart! Amelia wasn't smart. She knew that about herself, they were always telling her. But she liked it. She liked feeling like she mattered. So perhaps that's why she said "No."

The woman responded immediately, springing into action. And that action began with two little words: "What's wrong?" Words Amy had never heard from an adult before, not with a genuine sense of meaning behind them. And she knew she had to say something to this woman. She would understand.

"I've lost my friends."

The woman peered over her spectacles into her heart. "So you threw your book?"

Amelia frowned. "It's the book's fault I lost them."

"Don't be silly, books don't do that," the woman told her, and Amelia's heart was crushed. She was just the same as all the others. She wanted her to admit she was wrong.

"It's my fault," she confessed, tearing up. "I was reading the book and lost them."

"Oh, hush, dear, don't blame yourself," the woman said, stooping down toward the bushes. "There's nothing wrong with being lost in a good book. Clearly it means a lot to you. Let's get it out of these plants, shall we?"

Don't blame yourself? That was a new one for Amelia. That was all she'd ever known to do. Did this woman not know it was always her own fault?

"Oh dear, the mud's gone all over it," the woman continued, frowning. And then Amelia couldn't hold back the tears any longer. She hurried over, snatching the book out of the woman's hands, cradling it like a dead friend. To her, that's exactly what it was, and she had killed it. The most horrible feeling returned for her, as it always did. Everything was always breaking and it was always her fault. "I broke it!" she proclaimed. Admitting it was her fault always seemed to make the grown-ups happy. "It's all my fault." And it hurt like hell.

The woman slowly reached out to stroke her hair, shushing her. It felt motherly, or at least like what Amy thought motherly should feel like. She didn't really know much more than what she wanted and what her aunt never did. "It's just a book," she told her softly.

Amelia protested. It was more than a book to her. It was a forbidden way of life. But she couldn't find those words. Nonetheless, the clever woman understood.

"It meant a lot to you, I know. I can see that. But if it helps, I can help you get some more books."

She smiled before she could stop herself. New books! New stories! New people, new worlds, better ones than hers! It was too good to resist. She may only have said a meek "okay" in response, but inside she was elated. There was just one problem: "My aunt won't like it."

"And yet she likes you wandering around in London on your own?" Evelyn asked, incredulous. "Well, you can tell her that I'm Professor Evelyn Smythe, and that if she wants to argue about it, she can drop in to my office at any time. Now come along, I think I may still have a bit of chocolate cake left in the fridge."

Amelia knew she was going to like this Evelyn Smythe.


End file.
